


night of anguish

by sunflowerbright



Series: Hotel California [8]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Depression, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 03:42:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerbright/pseuds/sunflowerbright
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Because he’s Icarus flying too close to the sun, and Grantaire tries to tell himself that Icarus may have died and fallen to the ground in a pile of ashes, but damn it if the man didn’t live his dreams to the full first.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	night of anguish

**_1832_ **

Grantaire does not know the girl that has died ( _the first victim,_ he thinks, _first of many. First of them all)_ , but it hits him still, watching Marius’ grieving face, seeing the others gently carrying her body away.

He wonders if he will be awake to carry his friends’ bodies away, just like they had the slight, dark-haired girl, and Grantaire drinks deep at that thought.

It gets worse, after that. They come out of the next attack somewhat unscathed, and Enjolras smiles at them and tells them to keep up hope, as night falls and Grantaire does not know if he should laugh or cry, and it is ridiculous, he thinks, to feel so many things at once, when they are all dying either way.

He does not know why he is here, only knows that, had life been pointless before, it is even more so now. Now it is dust, and broken pillars, chairs and tables forming a barrier, and warm bodies close beside him, people he has called friends and can soon call corpses.

Courfeyrac passes a bottle around, and it is a steady weight in Grantaire’s hand now that he has already finished the old one _(first of many)_. Courfeyrac smiles, widely, carelessly, the dark hiding whatever fear must surely be on his face, much more effectively than he can do through his carefree nature.

“Do you remember that girl from the traveling circus?” he asks, not loud, but not quiet either, everyone nearby able to hear, the question for them all. “I do not recall her name – but aye, she could do some fine things, could she not?”

“I remember,” Bahorel mumbles, from his position just behind Grantaire, reclining on the lower parts of the Barricade as if it is his personal resting-place. “Bend in half, she could.”

“They performed down at the market, I remember. They had a young gentleman to go and collect money in a hat: now he was a delightful one as well,” Courfeyrac continues, and Grantaire’s head is spinning, and then he snorts, loudly, too loud, feeling the monster tear and beat in his chest.

“You are truly afraid to die, are you not?” he says, voice ringing against the walls they have built, to keep the guards out and themselves in. Like mice in a trap. They are all staring at him now, in wonder, in fear, in anger, in exasperation, and Enjolras climbs down from where he had been, standing above them all like the unimaginable creature he is, now landing down in the dirt with the rest of them.

“Or is it,” Grantaire continues, not able to stop himself, locking eyes with the descending Apollo in spite of the heat that will surely consume him there. “Is it that you are afraid no-one will remember? That your, ah, _great deeds_ shall fade in the history-books and things shall continue as they always have, no-one ever mentioning the brave band of little school-boys again - because they failed.”

He means to spit it out, disdainfully, to convey how foolish and arrogant this whole endeavour is, to make them see how angry he is, that they are going to die like this, die when he has only just found them (years, years, such short years are not enough, not when you have been living in the dark all your life and have only now seen the sun). He means to, he really does, but his voice _breaks_ over the last few words, and Enjolras is kneeling down in front of him, one hand reaching out to touch his shoulder and _oh._

It is warm, but not burning – Grantaire is not being consumed and dying in agonising pain. It is spreading from the inside instead, heat pooling in the pit of his stomach, and Enjolras’ eyes are almost soft, in the darkness, or at least Grantaire can pretend that they are.

“I apologise, dear Apollo,” he mutters. “This is not what the men need to hear.”

“I think,” Enjolras’ voice is as low as his, sparing him the humiliation of having the others know: they are turning their attention away as well, already, knowing when a moment is private. “I think that you are rather more afraid for us, than for yourself, as one might first have believed you to be.”

“If I was afraid for myself, I would not be here,” Grantaire admits to the truth, because he cannot lie to this man. Not when he is this close, is still touching him, is speaking more softly to him than he ever has.

This man will be dead come the next sundown. There is no proof more evident towards the cruelty of the world than that.

Enjolras leans forward, their foreheads touching, and it is too much and not enough, and Grantaire has pulled him into a hug before he can even think on it, surprising himself as much as he surprises Enjolras, if the other man’s sudden tension is anything to go by.

Still. Enjolras smells of gunpowder and clean, fresh air, and Grantaire allows himself one more moment to cling to him, before starting to pull away, lest this starts to reveal too much _(it has already revealed too much, he thinks)_

He is surprised at the hand that lands on the back of his head, making him stay in place, Enjolras relaxing slightly as he is the one to continue the embrace now, one hand soothingly stroking up and down Grantaire’s back, and it is overwhelming and so unfair, that Grantaire has to stop the tears from flowing freely now.

“Have heart,” Enjolras whispers to him, softly. “We will see the people rise. And we will stand beside each other in a new world. A better world.”

He pulls away, letting his hand linger on Grantaire’s shoulder just a little while longer, the contact sorely missed as soon as it is gone.

Grantaire forces a smile that Enjolras returns, not noticing the bleakness in the other man’s eyes, or simply choosing to ignore it, because he has no other choice. And Grantaire, Grantaire thinks he is grateful, thinks his heart is beating a new rhythm now, thinks this is dangerously close to believing.

But they are still on the Barricade, and he still has the faint noise of soldier’s marching and gunshots ringing in his ears.

He wonders if he will ever get the sound of that out of his head, no matter how short a while he may live yet.

 

*

**_present day_ **

 

Going slow is… surprisingly something Grantaire can deal with. Being with Enjolras like this is like having been freezing cold, for so long, and instead of someone just throwing you into the warm water, you’re submerged slowly, carefully, so it’s not scalding or too much.

Okay, some days it is too much. The second time Enjolras kisses Grantaire, the night of the day after he’s discharged from the hospital, he ends up pulling away and mumbling something about getting juice from the fridge, before nearly knocking himself out by attempting to get up from the sofa and walk to the kitchen by himself, thus nearly falling flat on his face because his legs weren’t quite that stable yet. Shit. Maybe Joly was right and he shouldn’t have been discharged from the hospital quite so soon.

They’d been sitting in silence for almost fifteen minutes after Enjolras had awkwardly caught him and placed him back in his former spot on the sofa, reprimanding him for even trying to exert himself like that when he wasn’t healed yet, before he finally blurted out that he was sorry if he’d moved too fast, Grantaire didn’t have to kiss him if he didn’t want to, at which point Grantaire had called him a fucking moron and asked him to leave. Right now.

He doesn’t know why exactly, because he certainly doesn’t deserve it, but Enjolras had stayed, despite clearly getting angry at Grantaire again skirting around the issue, and asked him to please explain what he had done wrong.

And see, Grantaire knew that Enjolras was relentless when it came to something he was passionate about, but he had never expected one of those things to be… well, _him_. Enjolras was surprisingly quick in hauling out the facts: that Grantaire was freaking out, and it was all just a bit too much, and he wanted to… he wanted to just never stop doing this, and _he was just fucking panicking, for fuck’s sake, Apollo, would you let it go?_

He thinks he’s burning up, and it’s terrifying because the only thing keeping him from doing exactly that is Enjolras, and the man had been right before: despite that he wants to, despite that he would lay his life in this man’s hands, he doesn’t really trust him. Not after that fucking night all those weeks ago, which he still feels ill just thinking about. It doesn’t stop Grantaire from clinging to him like a life-line, but it does make him hesitate and second-guess, even more than he used to.

He wasn’t exactly deliberately trying to sabotage this relationship, and that was probably the reason why Enjolras didn’t just give up: but when had Enjolras ever given up in anything, simply because Grantaire was rolling his eyes at the very idea?

Not that he was really rolling his eyes at this. More like praising the Heavens. He was scared, at first: scared that he was going to be too intense, and scare the other man off with his endless devotion. But then he quickly realized that this was _Enjolras_ he was talking about, and if anyone did intense, it was him. There was a picture of him right under the word in a dictionary, he was sure. Enjolras was the epitome of intense. He was intense about his causes, he was intense about his work, he was intense about his friends. And he was intense about Grantaire. Which might have something to do with said freak-outs.

Because he’s Icarus flying too close to the sun, and Grantaire tries to tell himself that Icarus may have died and fallen to the ground in a pile of ashes, but damn it if the man didn’t live his dreams to the full first.

About three weeks after he’s out of the hospital, Enjolras sneaks into his bed in the middle of the night, and tells him, in a soft, even voice, that he would like to stay over as much as he could, with him here, because he keeps having nightmares.

Nightmares about Grantaire that manifested from fear of losing him, and not from the constant jabbering and cajoling that was him in general. Because Grantaire is sure there are many people out here who has had nightmares involving him as the Big Bad, so this is… this is new, and different and…

He turns around and tells Enjolras quite seriously, _‘you can stay, but this is awkward, because I was going to sleep and I sometimes sleep naked, and such a time is right now in fact’_ , and Enjolras’ eyes had lit up like it was fucking Christmas or something, which in turn had made Grantaire feel hot all over, and then suddenly he was being cradled close and kissed, Enjolras asking _‘is this okay?’_ as he slid downwards, and later Grantaire will have to admit that for a virgin Enjolras is particularly apt at stuff, and he lets Grantaire pull at his hair and scratch his nails over his back, and only responds by pressing him deeper down into the mattress as he moves upwards again, mouth touching as much skin as he can meet. And if the kinky talk had surprised him before, when it was just that – talking – then it is nothing compared to the things Enjolras whispers to him then, all confessions and promises that Grantaire is fairly certain, if this performance is anything to go by, are promises that Enjolras can and will keep.

He wakes the next day pressed to a warm, naked chest, Enjolras clinging to him like he’s a goddamn teddy-bear, and also stealing the covers, which, rude, when Grantaire is currently completely naked and Enjolras at least is wearing underwear.

That’s when he realizes its daylight and he’s all on display, and he tries to pull away before Enjolras can awaken, but the man just tightens his grip and opens his eyes with a slow lazy smile, and that has got to be the most beautiful sight Grantaire has ever witnessed. He needs his sketchbook, right fucking now, or a camera, or an eidetic memory. Or just for Enjolras to stay and always smile at him like that.

“Where’ you going?” Enjolras mutters, voice husky from sleep and well… usage, from last night. Grantaire almost grins in delight at the very thought.

“Uh… clothes,” he gets out, trying to pull away again, only to get shifted right back into Enjolras’ arms.

“I’m really not in favour of that,” Enjolras laughs, his hand reaching up to stroke Grantaire’s back, but he stops when Grantaire flinches.

Because last night had been all hurried and fumbling hands in the dark. Now it’s light, and Enjolras will be able to see the scars covering parts of his back, marks after the lashes he took from the Thénardier’s and other foster-parents who didn’t have the patience for a sarcastic little dreamer with issues piled on top of each other. There are not many, and Grantaire has never been ashamed of them before, but he doesn’t… damn it all to hell, but he doesn’t want Enjolras to see.

Enjolras places his hand on his back and feels them instead, before Grantaire can protest further.

“Was this Eponine’s father?” he asks, stroking up the length of the biggest scar, the most ragged, running just a few inches underneath his tattoo. All of Les Amis have heard the horror-stories about the Thénardier crooks, and though there have been few details, there has been enough for them to get the general idea.

“Yes,” Grantaire grits out, still tense. Still waiting for Enjolras to pull away in… in disgust or just sheer awkwardness or…

“You didn’t want me to see,” he continues, still stroking lightly, barely there, as if he’s asking for permission to continue while still not being completely willing, or able to stop now that he’s started touching. “Do they still hurt?”

“They’re too old. Some of them… some of them are from fights with other kids as well. But I rarely got  scars after that. Just bruises. Kids don’t usually take their times using belts or cigarettes or broken bottles.”

Enjolras draws in a sharp breath, fingers stilling, and Grantaire closes his eyes, waiting for… he doesn’t even know what he’s waiting for. A hit, maybe, a verbal one, because Enjolras would _never_ , but a comment about how he shouldn’t have interfered, should have protected himself better, should have just done better in general…  except no, Enjolras is not that cruel, he _knows_ that.

_‘I can’t imagine anyone ever having the slightest inkling of love for you!’_

Enjolras kisses him, short and almost desperate. “You didn’t want me to see,” he repeats when he pulls away. “Why?”

“They’re ugly,” Grantaire mutters with a shrug. _I’m ugly._

“Can I see now?” he’s already lifting himself up, glancing over Grantaire’s shoulder, hand stroking up and down his back again, fingers brushing his tattoo as well. “They’re not ugly,” he says then, and Grantaire snorts.

“They’re not pretty,” Enjolras continues. “They’re scars. You’ll have a scar where you were shot. I have a scar from falling out of a tree when I was little. They’re just scars. They don’t make you ugly, Grantaire.”

“Nah, my face does that all on its own,” he blurts out before he can stop himself, and really _must invest in filter!_

Enjolras eyes snap to his, and oh, what was that metaphor Grantaire had used about burning up?

“I think you’re beautiful,” Enjolras says, and he uses his ‘For the Cause’-voice, which is authoritative and sexy as all hell, not to mention _convincing_ , because how dare anyone question the sanctity of what he is saying?. “I think you’re… what’s the word, hmm…” he leans closer, lips brushing his nose, and Grantaire’s eyes close again. “Exquisite.”

“Okay, no-one’s ever called me that before.”

“You are,” Enjolras mumbles. “You are. And I wish you weren’t so hard on yourself. Makes the man who is with you now looks rather a fool, doesn’t it?”

“You _are_ a fool,” Grantaire tells him, and kisses him to make him stop talking.

 

 

*

 

“I really don’t understand why you can’t be nicer to her… Eponine… hey, ‘Ponine, come back!”

She stops and whirls around, probably surprising him with the fast movement, because Combeferre stops in his tracks, shooting her a vary look.

“I can’t be nicer to her, because she is horrid, and she’s lying to you!” Eponine hisses, completely ignoring the fact that everyone on the street they were currently on could hear her. “Tilly doesn’t care about you Combeferre…”

“I agree,” he interrupts, making her stop short and stare at him. “Tilly doesn’t care about me – at least not in that way. We’re not dating, Eponine.”

She blinks in confusion. “You’re… not…”

He grins at her. “I know what everyone is saying, but it’s not like that at all. Tilly is helping me with…” he stops himself and sighs. “These last few months haven’t exactly been easy. There’s been all of this to worry about, and I’ve had to watch my best friend fret and beat himself up over his new crush, and you’ve… everything’s just been not going so well. And then I met Tilly, and she’s… she’s good. At listening.”

“Listening?” Eponine frowns. “You wanted someone to listen to you? Have you told her about…”

“Kind of. I don’t think she believes me,” he awkwardly scratches the back of his neck. “Um, she’s heavily into things like that, finds it fascinating, but I don’t know if it’s just a hobby or if she actually does believe me when I say that… well. Maybe she just thinks I’m a history nerd or weird.”

“Or possibly ready for the loony-bin.”

Combeferre frowns. “Do you really think she thinks that?”

“See! You do like her!” Eponine protests, stopping herself from punching him in the arm. This wasn’t Grantaire who would just punch right back: Combeferre would look all sad if she did that to him, and Eponine admits (only to herself though!) that Combeferre looking sad breaks her heart.

“Eponine, being worried about someone’s opinion of you does not mean that you love them,” oh, he’s starting to sound exasperated now. Eponine tries not to cringe – she hates it when she manages to get on Combeferre’s last nerves, because that takes a particular high level of skill. Combeferre has the patience of a saint.

He’s still looking at her with soft eyes, though. At least that’s something.

“I didn’t mean to devote so much attention to her,” he quietly says. “You’re still my best friends. I hope you know that.”

And then he says, “Especially you,” and Eponine’s heart skips a small beat.

“Well,” she says. “It’s nice to have that cleared up. And everything.”

Combeferre smiles. “Yes. It is. But c’mon. I want to show you something. As an apology for the neglect?”

He’s taken hold of her hand and starts pulling her down the street, ignoring all of her questions about said surprise and where they are going, until Eponine feels like she is bursting from curiosity, and this really isn’t fair, Combeferre knows what she’s like, knows that this will drive her insane until she finds out…

“Oh.”

Combeferre is one of the only one of them who lives on his own, having rented quite a big flat from his aunt, who lives in Spain and only uses her living-spaces in Paris once or twice a year, when she is home for family-visits or business. Since the flat is so big, it’s (apart from the café and the bar) one of the places they most usually end up meeting, the lot of them, so Eponine, at this point, knows the place almost like the back of her hand.

The large painting currently standing on the sofa is definitely a new addition.

Eponine has never seen it before in her life, but she immediately knows who has made it.

“Apart from the fact that it’s very likely to be him, given the… _subject_ ,” Combeferre mumbles behind her. “The giant signed _‘R’_ looks exactly like the one he decided to scribble on Feuilly’s shoulder once, back in 1831, I think, after convincing him that he was part-Polish and so they were brothers in arms. To be fair, Feuilly had gotten quite drunk at that point, and I never knew him to hold it against Grantaire. I’m pretty sure they actually became even better friends after that,” he steps forward a little, fingers brushing hers slightly. “That is actually the first time I think I saw Enjolras completely out of sorts. With how much he admired Feuilly, I used to think that he was bewildered as to how the two of them had anything in common, but now I think it was possibly rather more complicated than that.”

“I wasn’t friends with Enjolras back then, and even I knew he had the emotional range of a particularly clever door-knob,” Eponine can’t help but add, affection clear in her voice, along with the last remains of the shock she’s still feeling.

They’re speaking of Enjolras, and he is here before them as well, wearing that silly red and gold vest she remembers seeing on him back in their former lives, sunlight streaming in through the window, making his curls glow like a halo, setting his eyes on fire: the few shadows added in the back almost makes it seem like he has wings. His face is turned half-way to the side, staring at something in the corner, right out of the picture, lines and edges drawn to perfection, creases and colours blending and Eponine has to blink and remind herself that this isn’t 1832, and she hasn’t snuck into one of Les Amis’ meetings to be near Marius, and instead gotten quite caught up in what the golden boy was saying, no matter how trivial she found it at the end of the day.

She’d quite like to think she would have joined them in their fights for other reasons, had the opportunity been there. But she doesn’t have time for more self-analysis, because her brain is finally done processing the fact that this painting is not anything she has seen Grantaire work on, Grantaire _who doesn’t remember,_ not Enjolras wearing that vest, or the dark wrist-bands he’d favoured, or the slightly uneven curve of what is clearly one of the Musain’s walls in the back. Grantaire doesn’t remember. The painting is old.

“How did you find this?” she asks, stepping a little closer, wanting to reach out and touch it, something from _back then,_ but also afraid to, lest it should crumble on contact. It doesn’t look worn, it looks like it’s been kept in good care for the last hundred years, but she worries about how fragile it might be.

“I didn’t, Musichetta did,” Combeferre says. “She says it was in the back of the shop, and since she’s still mad that she can’t get a hold of the owner, she decided to nick it. She said, and I quote, _‘it technically belongs to Grantaire anyway, not that half-dead old bastard’_ , unquote, but she… well, she didn’t want to risk upsetting him, because of how he’s been taking everything, and she knew Joly and Bossuet couldn’t keep it a secret for long, so she asked me to look after it, just for a while.”

Eponine suddenly finds she has to swallow heavily. “You mean until Grantaire gets his memories back.”

“If he ever does,” Combeferre states, like he isn’t afraid to say what they’re all thinking. If. _If. Ifififif._

Eponine is worried, so worried that he never will, because she knows its tearing at her oldest friend, the not-knowing, almost as much as its tearing at him that he wants to run away from it, and Enjolras still looks like someone had given the Nineteenth century-him democracy and equality on a silver platter only to snatch it away again, every time Grantaire’s lack of memory comes up.

So it’s an ‘if’. If he ever gets his memories back.

“I wish none of us had gotten our memories back,” she says, her voice bitter, and she can’t help it, because she’d died, cold and alone except for Marius, who had been the only kind and good thing in her life, and she thinks that she would have been better off not knowing about that: in that, her and Grantaire are probably alike. There’s not much to remembering a life that wasn’t really worth living to begin with.

“I’m glad we did,” Combeferre says, pressing her hand. “It’s confusing and it’s frightening, but now we… now we know. That we’re meant to stand together, all of us. That we’re a unity that apparently not even death can rip apart.”

Eponine makes herself roll her eyes, not willing to let him see how much those words actually get to her. “You make it sound like a corny movie.”

“If this was a corny movie, I’d kiss you right now,” Combeferre says, and Eponine quickly lets go of his hand.

“We should hide the painting,” she says, and you go girl, discreetly changing the subject, that wasn’t awkward or obvious at all. “I don’t think Grantaire is quite ready to deal with seeing that yet, and he’ll think it’s embarrassing if Enjolras sees it. So we’ll hide it and figure out what to do with it later?”

“Okay,” Combeferre says and she sneaks a quick glance at him. He looks a little… crestfallen. It makes her heart skip a beat.

She narrows her eyes. “Did you really want to show it to him?”

“It was actually the kiss I was hoping for,” Combeferre admits, grinning at her, and he’s clearly teasing her, and Eponine won’t have that. So she kisses him.

It’s quite a shock when he grabs hold of her and kisses her back, _really_ kisses her back, like he’s been wanting to do this for a long while or something, and isn’t going to let the opportunity go now that he’s had it, and okay, it’s not like Eponine has _never_ wondered what it would be like to kiss Combeferre, he is quite handsome and without a doubt one of the kindest people she has ever met, and one of the best friends she has.

She’s pretty sure there hasn’t always been butterflies trying to commit mutiny inside her stomach when he’s near, but she also knows for certain that that has never happened when someone has kissed her either, not even Marius at the New Year party two years ago, and…

Combeferre pulls away from her, and she finds herself following in protest, until she realizes what is happening and abruptly stops, blushing wildly. Oh, seriously… get a grip, girl.

“So, we hide the painting?” he asks, all innocent like _that_ didn’t just happen.

“I don’t want to talk about the painting,” Eponine tells him, trying to regain her ground. “I’d like you to kiss me again. Now. Please.”

Combeferre has always been so good at obliging.

 

*

 

The day Grantaire meets Tilly is the same day he is finally allowed outside of the flat without supervision from at least three worried friends (and one very worried boyfriend, and no, Grantaire is not getting giddy just thinking that word, _he’s not_ )

(he really is)

He’s sitting at the café sketching, enjoying not being cooped up in the flat anymore, when someone comes up next to him, their shadow falling over his work and the table.

“Hi,” the girl has long, strawberry-blonde hair and green eyes. She’s pretty in a sort of unassuming way, and Grantaire doesn’t really know what to say to her.

“Um, hello.”

“You’re Raphael right? I’m Tilly.”

“You’re… oh, Tilly! That Tilly! Right. Hi to you, um, Tilly,” he rambles while trying to discreetly slide his drawing away. He really doesn’t like other people to see his work just like that. Luckily, Tilly isn’t even paying attention to what he’s doing.

“I’ve been looking for you,” she says, still smiling.

“Um, great. Combeferre isn’t actually here, but…”

“It’s not Combeferre I need to talk to.” _What?_

“What?”

“We need to go somewhere else,” she says. “There are too many people here.”

“Okay, should I be worried or flattered? I’m sort of taken.”

She tilts her head to the side and smiles at him: it’s a scary smile. Not as effective as Eponine or Enjolras smiling like that, but still enough to make him vary of joking too much.

“I’m going to take you to someone who can explain,” she says, as if that clarifies everything. “About you and about the others.”

He frowns. “You mean… did Combeferre tell you?”

“Combeferre didn’t have to tell me. And we’re not actually dating. I’ll explain later. Come on.” And then she turns and leaves, as if she just expects him to follow her.

Okay, so Grantaire follows her. She has a very commanding presence, and also, maybe answers, and he is intrigued now, he has to admit.

Enjolras is going to kill him. Maybe she’s trying to lure him into an alley to finish what Javert started. Oh great.

She doesn’t: they end up walking into the back-room of the café, which Grantaire didn’t even know was there: it holds nothing but a low table and two chairs on either side of it. She closes the door behind them, not allowing much light to slip into the room: there is only a small window and a flickering lamp to illuminate the room.

There’s an elderly man sitting by the table, flicking through an open book before him: he raises his eyes when Grantaire comes in, and smiles.

“Raphael,” he says. “I’m happy to see you’re better.”

“Who are you?” he asks, apprehensive: he really thinks he’s been through enough crap these last few months to be justified in that. “What’s going on?”

“Please take a seat,” the man says, gesturing towards the other chair. “We have a lot of talking to do.”

“About what?”

“About your memories, for one.”

Grantaire sits down. His heart is pounding, and he’s very aware of Tilly standing by the door like some weird bodyguard or bouncer, and the old man’s gaze keeping him pinned to the chair.

“This isn’t…”

“I didn’t think you were ready,” the man starts, completely ignoring whatever it was that Grantaire had been about to say (which he has to admit he isn’t even too sure of himself). “There are… a lot of tests, evaluations to consider, and so we were waiting until we approached you. But now this happened, and I feel like I owe you an apology. I am sorry this happened to you, Raphael: please do tell Cosette that her mother is fine, and that she will see her soon, if we can manage it. You should not put yourself in harm’s way anymore. It is not wise. We will have need of you later.”

Grantaire blinks. “Cosette’s mother is alright?”

“She is.”

“And she’s… she remembers… and you were from… from back then, as well?”

“Yes, Fantine remembers. She has since she was a small child, when I first met her. As for your second question, the answer to that is also yes. In a manner of speaking.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“My name back then was Mabeuf,” the man replies, and Grantaire wonders how he can be so calm. “My name here and now is not relevant. You can call me Mabeuf. If you doubt my words, you can ask your friends: they remember me. I died on the Barricade, with them.”

The room is spinning a little bit, and Grantaire has to press down hard on the bridge of his nose to make it stop, to make himself focus again. “Are you in… in charge of all of this, or something? Are you the reason we’re back?”

“No, but I work for the one who is.”

“Tell me.”

“I am sorry, I am under orders not to. And if you would, I would be very happy if you did not mention this to any of the others quite yet. I promise you will not have to keep the secret for long.”

“The fuck… why should I even believe you? Why are you telling me this? What’s all this about evaluations and why… I don’t understand,” this is why he had said he wanted nothing to do with all of this. It is too insane, it’s too much. People need to stop involving him in it. He needs to stop involving himself

His mouth suddenly feels dry. “Why don’t I remember?”

Mabeuf looks at him, almost softly. “Because I made it so that you could not.”

“ _What?”_

“You may not remember, but you were… not very happy, in your first life. I thought that this would be easier for you.”

Grantaire closes his eyes, almost involuntarily. “Easier.”

“Yes.”

“What the hell,” he asks. “Gives you or anyone else, the permission to toy with human lives like this? Why are we back?? Answer me!”

“You’re back because you’ve been chosen,” Mabeuf says, as if that makes sense. “And if you…”

“That is bullshit!” Grantaire interrupts. “Make me remember!” he demands. He’s terrified, and a large part of him doesn’t want this, was so happy that they’d agreed to let it go for now, but this man is sitting here in front of him, and has taken something of his, and right now he’s burning up with how not alright he feels about that.

“I can’t,” Mabeuf says. “I’m sorry, that is not in my power.”

“What triggered the others?!”

“She did.”

“The one you work for?” Grantaire turns around. “Is it you?”

Tilly smiles slightly. “No,” she says. “I’m not her. I’m not like you either: this is my first life. And hopefully my only one.”

“I can see why you would think like that,” Grantaire spits out, his wound throbbing in pain now. “Did you decide to do this now, because I’m not actually well enough to beat you up?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t hit an old man. And I am terribly old,” Mabeuf has the gall to smile at him. Grantaire has never wanted to strangle another person so much in his life. But then he catches the man’s eyes, and all of the fight leaves him.

Mabeuf, he thinks, looks tired.

“So we’re puppets,” Grantaire mumbles. “I was right about there being a purpose, but it isn’t anything we can do anything about. At all.”

“All will be revealed in time.”

“I’m going to tell the others about this.”

“I had hoped you wouldn’t. It might bring them in danger.”

“From what?” he feels afraid, suddenly. Afraid and tired. “From you?”

“It is not in my interest to harm any of you.”

“I think you’ve done more than enough,” Grantaire says. “If you’re not going to answer my questions, then I would like to leave now.”

“You’ve asked me all the questions you want to?”

He grits his teeth and ignores the instinct that is telling him to just get the hell out of there, right now.

“No. I want to know who you are.”

“We are friends. We are the good guys. Is that not enough?”

“Are you the bookseller, at the orphanage? The one who left the address that led us to Javert?”

Mabeuf’s face goes dark. “Yes. That was a mistake. Javert is… that was a mistake.”

Grantaire swallows heavily. “So he’s what, a failed experiment or something?” he stands up, ignoring the pain in his stomach. “Did he fail one of your… your… you mentioned _tests._ Is that what we are?”

Mabeuf says nothing: merely gives him an even, level stare. Grantaire clenches his fists.

“If you’re not going to help, then I want you to stay away from me and from my friends, do you hear me?”

“Raphael,” Mabeuf says. “Of course I’m here to help.”

“Then tell me!”

“Tell him,” it’s Tilly’s voice, coming to be his Saving Grace. Mabeuf’s eyes widen.

“We can’t…”

“It’s time. And if you won’t tell him, then I will.”

Mabeuf looks absolutely furious. “Leave,” he says to her. “I’ll tell him, but you’ll leave.”

Grantaire is at the point where he really doesn’t want her to go, because being left alone with this man doesn’t seem very safe. But Tilly leaves, and well, if he gets some answers, it’s worth it. He hopes.

He’s sure he can fight Mabeuf off, should it come to it: the man is not frail looking anymore-so than any other elderly, but he is also sitting upright and moves like a much younger man. And Grantaire is still injured.

He really hopes it doesn’t come to a fight.

The fact that he’s expecting it doesn’t say many good things about his life currently.

“I woke up again,” the man suddenly says, sounding tired. He still looks slightly angry, though. “I was gunned down, at the Barricade, before the lot of you. And then I woke up two days later, once the National Guard were busy cleaning up the mess they’d left. Gave them quite a scare,” he stops himself to chuckle slightly at the memory, and okay, _disturbing._ But Grantaire can appreciate a bit of morbid humour now and then. He wonders if Mabeuf helped bury _them_.

“Then _she_ came,” Mabeuf continues. “They were about to arrest me, probably thought I had only pretended to be dead and they had somehow overlooked it, but in she sweeps, and tells them I’m going with her now, and off we went.” He raises his eyes to meet Grantaire’s. “I’ve been alive ever since. I’ve been her messenger, her right hand, her bodyguard.”

“How is that possible?” Mabeuf does not look _that_ old.

He smiles slightly. “How is it possible that you are sitting here before me, having already lived and been robbed off life? You are angry with me, but I don’t regret my decision, you know. Your eyes, back then, they were so horrible, so wretched. You might think you are broken now, Grantaire, but it is nothing compared to what you were back then. That is why I did not give you back your memories, when the other’s time had come.”

Grantaire feels cold. His shoulder is aching, his head, temple and the spot right beside his eye. He wonders if that is where the bullets hit, last time. If he even got shot, or if his organs just decided to give out and kill him now everyone he ever cared about were dead or dying either way. If maybe he had drunk so much he had drowned.  

“How can she do that?” he asks, because he doesn’t want to talk about himself now, about… the other Grantaire, he could almost put it as. “Bring you back to life, bring us back now?”

“I don’t know,” Mabeuf says. “She is not human, not completely. It is rather complicated. But she needs protection from those that would harm her, and she needs… she calls it Recruits. People who have shown great bravery or kindness. She breathes life back into them, like me, and keeps us around until we eventually turn into dust, or she raises you up again, gives you new life and then, when you’re ready… you’re Recruited.”

“Recruited for what? Are we fighting a war?”

Fuck it all, he had been right about the zombie apocalypse.

“Yes,” Mabeuf says.

_Oh god._

“That is bullshit! Whose war?”

“You will know, in time.”

“Fucking hell… I have never punched someone over a hundred years old in the face before, but I’m told there is a first time for everything.”

Mabeuf actually smiles at him. It doesn’t make Grantaire want to punch him less.

“I will deal with Javert,” he says then. “He will not be a bother to you again.”

“A bother… I was _shot_.”

“And it was a mistake. Raphael… you are not ready. Your friends are not ready. If you rush into this, you are going to get them all killed for nothing.”

“Why would you give us back our memories if we are not ready yet?”

Mabeuf moves to get up. “The memories are part of the process. We don’t have much time anymore, Grantaire. I have explained all that I can. I must depart now.”

“You’ve explained nothing,” he gets up as well, the chair almost falling over behind him in his haste. “How do I get my memories back?”

The other man simply stares at him.

“You don’t really want them back, do you… Grantaire?”

Mabeuf leaves. This time, Grantaire doesn’t move to stop him.

 

*

 

 

Grantaire doesn’t remember the rest of the day, but it’s a sharp pain in his abdomen that wakes him, come morning. He’s back in his own flat, still wearing the same clothes as yesterday, and they reeks of alcohol and smoke. His head almost hurts worse than his injury.

There is a glass of water and some aspirin on his bedside table, and also someone that is definitely not Eponine or Azelma shuffling around in the kitchen, because the person is trying not to make too much noise, whereas the two girls wouldn’t care, and had it been Gavroche, he would be sneaking around like a ninja, making no sound at all. It must be someone else.

He’s still pretty surprised to find Enjolras in the kitchen. What’s not surprising is the man’s glare, before he quickly looks away again.

“’Morning,” Enjolras mutters as he sees him, clearly restraining himself from not just ripping the cabinet-door off its hinges as he opens it. “Did you sleep well?”

“Um…”

“Except for the fact that it was more of a coma, of course.”

“About that…”

“What the hell were you thinking?!” Enjolras whirls around to look at him now, and Grantaire winces, because it hurts, inside and out, and he can’t function.

He remembers, stumbling into the bar at a way too early hour, getting cut off, stumbling to the next bar. It’s a sloppy, familiar haze. He probably called Enjolras and rambled on about something or other. While dead-drunk. Super.

“But if course you didn’t think,” Enjolras continues, hissing as he advances closer to Grantaire. “You’re still on medication, Grantaire, because you were in the hospital, in surgery, _because someone tried to kill you!_ Do you even fucking _remember_ that?!”

“Of course I remember that. I’m not the one all hung up about it, though.”

“ _Hung up about it?”_ Enjolras looks like he is using the very last of his willpower not to reach out and shake some actual sense into Grantaire. “You’re the one acting like you don’t care, like this was just another minor accident for you, like had you fallen down the stairs or walked into a door. Someone tried to kill you, Grantaire! And he’s still fucking out there!”

_‘I will deal with Javert. He will not be a bother to you again.’_

“He looked terrified when he saw me,” Grantaire gets out, finally. “In the bar all those years ago, and right before he shot me. If he remembers like the rest of us, then he’s alone. Something went wrong, like it went wrong with me, and he’s falling apart and maybe that’s why he fucking shot me, because he’s falling apart inside, but maybe that is too much understanding to ask from the marble statue that always has everything under control!”

“Have _what_ under control?” Enjolras voice actually shakes a bit, but only for a moment. “I can’t even keep you from getting shot.”

“ _I am not your fucking responsibility!_ You’re not my babysitter, is that what this is? You feel like you failed me, so now you have to stick around and make sure I don’t accidentally kill myself?!”

“You know it’s not like that!”

“Admit it,” Grantaire hisses, stepping forward now, definitely in Enjolras’ personal space. But he’d started it. “Admit that you feel guilty, c’mon, it’s not that hard. You’re such a fucking martyr, aren’t you? You’re probably secretly loving this, having someone to _save_.”

Enjolras’ eyes have gone such a cold shade. “I sat in that fucking waiting-room and I _cried_ because I was so terrified you wouldn’t make it. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t, except maybe find Javert and kill him.”

Grantaire sags a little, and Enjolras hand automatically shoots up to steady him, resting on his arm. He’s gripping harder than he would where they not arguing. Grantaire finds that it almost grounds him.

“Don’t kill him.”

“No, that’s Plan B,” Enjolras sounds deadly serious. “Why the hell would you care if he died?”

“It’s the same reason why I told Cosette not to feel guilty,” Grantaire can’t have this conversation, he can’t. He wants to tell Enjolras that they’re all going to die for something so much bigger than them, just like he’d said, that they can’t control this, that they’re all in so much more danger than they first thought. “Because he’s like me.”

“He’s not like you! He’s a monster! He’s a dog of the law whose gone rabid now, and he’s after you Grantaire, _why won’t you fucking get that!”_

His head feels like it’s splitting down the middle. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “Please don’t yell at me.”

He can tell Enjolras is still angry, but the other man pulls him into his arms anyway, Grantaire’s face buried against his shoulder, clutching tightly at his back. He keeps muttering _‘sorry’_ , the sound muffled against clothes and skin, but he knows Enjolras hears it anyway.

He wants to tell him, wants to open his mouth and explain why he was drinking, why he feels like he does, why he is more scared now than when he had been nearly killed, but the words won’t come, nothing except apologies that, in the end, mean nothing, because he knows he’ll just screw it all up again later.

“I think he’s scared,” Grantaire finally gets out, still meaning Javert. “He doesn’t know what to do. And he shot me because he thinks I’m the enemy.”

_‘Are we fighting a war?’_

Enjolras kisses the side of his head gently. “Is this why you had so much to drink last night? Do you feel sorry for him?”

“Yes,” he lies. Then. “No, I… Enjolras?”

“Yes?”

“We should just get away from here. We could move to Canada,” he pulls away slightly to look up at him. “Move to Canada with me?”

“Um, no thanks.”

“Oh, c’mon, Canada is basically France!”

Enjolras smiles slightly. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “I think I’d rather miss our friends back here.”

“They can come too,” Grantaire mumbles, moving closer again when he sees Enjolras frown.

“Grantaire?”

“I feel like I’m going to throw up.”

“That’s most likely because you emptied Paris of liquor last night,” Enjolras voice is hard as steel and Grantaire flinches slightly at the sound of it.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry, sorry, sorrysorry…”

“Grantaire, stop that. It’s okay. No, actually, it’s not because you called me at four in the morning and you passed out and I had trouble telling if you were still breathing, and you scared the shit out of me. But I’m not… I’m worried, that’s all, I worry so much about you. Why did this happen now? Did I… did I do something?”

He closes his eyes. Maybe if he pretends to be asleep… okay no, he’s standing up. Not even he can fall asleep standing up, though he has come close a few times.

“Do you know anyone by the name of Mabeuf?” he says instead. He instantly regrets it.

_‘If you tell your friends, you are going to put them all in danger.’_

Enjolras practically jumps away from him, his eyes on fire. “Did you meet him? Is he back as well?”

“He is,” Grantaire mutters weakly. “I talked to him yesterday.”

“Really? Where is he?” Enjolras lets completely go of him now, and Grantaire has to sit down on one of the chairs by the kitchen-table, feeling like he won’t be able to keep himself upright on his own.

“He left again,” he says. “He didn’t… he’s not going to help, Enjolras. Nothing is going to help.”

That at least makes Enjolras stop looking like he is going to burst into song. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that we are on our own,” Grantaire hisses. “That there is a fucking storm about to hit, now or tomorrow or in ten years, I don’t even know, and we’ll have no idea how to handle it. Because apparently, we’ve been chosen to… fight evil or zombies, or something shitty like that. It’s why we’re back, it’s why we’re here, and I don’t remember because he…” he stops himself at the look on Enjolras’ face.

“He what?” Enjolras asks, his voice low and… and dangerous.

“He took them,” Grantaire mumbles. “He took my… my memories. He took them because he thought it was for the better, and he can’t give them back to me now and to be honest, I’m glad. If this is what it’s like… he told me in explicit terms how pathetic I was back then. I don’t want to remember Enjolras, I don’t.”

“But how can you know?” Enjolras is shouting now, and Grantaire can’t meet his eyes. “How can you know that you would rather be without them – what if that’s what’s missing? We’ve all remembered, why shouldn’t you? He can’t just take them from you! He doesn’t have the right!”

“Oh, great,” Grantaire mutters. “Here we go, let’s save Grantaire, everyone needs memories of their former crap-lives back. Maybe this is why I almost drank myself to death last night instead of talking to you, did you think of that?”

Enjolras goes pale. “Fuck you,” he hisses. “You need to talk to me, do you understand? You can’t just shut me out. That isn’t fair.”

“Newsflash, nothing is. But at least you can console yourself over the fact that it’s not your fault we’re all back. You can take it as a good thing. You have a new cause to fight for now – some mysterious lady needs us like pawn-pieces.”

“I won’t let them.”

“You’re so fucking naïve,” Grantaire’s heart is pounding in beat with the aching of his head and all his limbs, like something trying to rip his skin apart from the inside. “I was right last time, wasn’t I? We all died. I’ll bet you anything I’m right again this time.”

“Stop it,” Enjolras’ eyes are flashing dangerously. “It is pathetic to give up so easily! How much do you actually know? You say we’ll get no help, that we can’t do this, but you don’t know, do you?! You’d rather just sit in your corner and make grand assumptions, because rather be pessimistic from the start than face disappointment, like the goddamn coward you are!”

“I’m not a coward, I’m a realist,” he says, pretending it doesn’t hurt. Pretending he hadn’t started this one. Pretending he doesn’t deserve every word out of Enjolras’ mouth right now.

“And I’m not listening to any more of this,” Enjolras goes out to get his coat. “I’m going to go find Mabeuf, and I am going to get the answers you failed at discerning, and then I am going to prove you wrong.” He stops himself right before going out of the door, eyes flickering back to Grantaire. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he mutters. It sounds more like a plea than an order.

Grantaire pretends there aren’t tears in his eyes when the door closes.   

 

**Author's Note:**

> The scene set in 1832 is inspired by the performance in _Les Miserables_ , London 2008. It can be found in parts on youtube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sJmp5yjZHtY (go to around 5:40 for the 'Drink With Me' sequence)
> 
> And Enjolras and Grantaire is just as bad as each other, let me emphasise that: Enjolras' feelings for Grantaire and his belief that the man could be so much more is also what spurs him to say cruel things, when faced with Grantaire just giving up like he is here. It's not okay, but neither is Grantaire deliberately shutting himself away from him, and making Enjolras feel like nothing matters, not even the two of them and what they have together. Communication-skills; these two boys lack them.


End file.
